


Before It’s Time for Sunny-Down

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Established Relationship, Frisky Steve, M/M, Masturbation, Slice of Life, Tony POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: Tony and Steve spend a lazy Sunday afternoon together in the tower.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 78
Kudos: 594





	Before It’s Time for Sunny-Down

Everyone who’s been up to Tony’s floor in the tower has commented one way or another about his couch. It’s not even in the top twenty of most ridiculous furniture that Tony’s ever had, but people are apparently confused by the combination of its pedestrian design – soft grey velvet in a mostly-typical rectangular shape – with its extra wide sitting cushions. _Extra_ wide. As in, the couch is deep enough that to sit in it is to slouch in it. Or sprawl, lounge, laze, any of the above.

A deep couch also means that two people – two grown men, even – can lie in it together lengthwise.

The thing is, Tony bought the couch _before_ he got together with Steve. But it’s a great thing he did because they can have moments like this: both of them lying on it together on a lazy Sunday afternoon, their schedules clear all the way to Monday, for no reason more complicated than that they can.

Steve’s lying deeper into the couch, and on his back as he reads a book. Tony’s turned to the side, his back resting against Steve’s side, and tapping away at his tablet while one foot dangles off the edge of the couch. The TV in front of them is switched on but only for noise, since neither of them has been paying much attention to it.

Occasionally either of them says something: Tony talks through something he’s doing, or Steve shares a line from the book that he likes. But otherwise they’re doing their individual activities in each other’s company, for the simple sake of that company, and that’s it.

It’s great. It’s easy. It’s wonderfully, embarrassingly mundane. Some would say, domestic _._

All Tony knows is that he doesn’t usually do his work lying down, but any impulse to pace is firmly canceled out by the feel of Steve’s body behind him. Tony’s _relaxed_ , in the kind of way that he’d believed for a long time only happened to other people. It’s nice to be wrong, that’s all.

“I’m feeling kinda nervous about where this is going,” Steve says.

“Bad nervous, good nervous?” Tony replies.

“Not sure yet.” There’s a crinkle when Steve turns a page.

Tony throws a few things into his outbox and the rest into the trash, then switches over to his alerts feed from the week. Most of the time he can’t be bothered to go through it himself, leaving it to JARVIS and Natasha, but he likes to peek in once in a while. A lot of noise in here, too, but a few fluff pieces that make him smile.

Time passes. The show playing on the TV ends, and another one starts.

Tony pokes at his schedule for the upcoming week, in case there’s anything important. He vaguely registers Steve’s fingers on his hip, trailing the line of thread just under the waistband of his jeans.

“Oh hey Clint’s recording that talk-show thing this week,” Tony says. “Didn’t they ask one of us if we could ‘crash’ it?”

“Natasha’s doing it.”

“Awwh, yeah, makes sense.” Tony’s arm’s feeling a little squished, so Tony shifts a little, and props up his neck more comfortably against the cushion under his head. He feels Steve move behind him, loosely echoing the motion.

Steve’s fingers are on Tony’s skin. Specifically, a small patch of skin at his waist, where the hem of Tony’s shirt has risen slightly. Steve’s fingertips – two, now that he’s conscious enough of them to count – are rolling light shapes against the bony jut of his hip. Steve seems to notice that Tony’s noticed, because he pauses, and curls one finger against the hem to tug it ever-so-slightly higher.

Tony swipes further down his reading list, but even as he does so he’s listening to what’s going on behind him. He can’t remember the last time he heard a page turn and, now that he’s paying attention, he can hear that Steve’s breathing is somewhat… labored. His breaths come low, measured, and deep, but they’re not of a man who’s about to fall asleep.

Tony’s not even facing Steve, but he doesn’t let himself grin. Steve would read it off him somehow, even from the back of his head. A pleasurable buzz settles low in his stomach, but he feels no urge to nurture it to fullness. Later, maybe. Before dinner? After dinner? All good options, and Tony’s so certain about said options that there’s no urgency to chase this one right now. Not for _him_ , anyway.

Steve, though.

Tony pushes back against Steve’s body, light and testing. Steve doesn’t feel tense, though he’s lost some of the relaxed looseness of earlier. Steve’s switched to controlled breathing, too – in through his nose and out through his mouth, evenly spaced. Tony wonders what part of his body that Steve is looking at.

“You finished the book already?” Tony says.

“Not yet, no.” Steve’s polite even when he’s feeling frisky. “Do you want to, uh…”

“Not right now, actually. But later? That’d be nice.” Tony adds quickly, his heart skipping a little, “Don’t let me stop you, though.”

There’s a beat as Steve parses this. “You don’t mind?”

“Nope. Go for it.”

Steve doesn’t ask if Tony’s sure, or if he means right _here_. He knows that Tony would’ve clarified either way, and the fact that Tony hasn’t moved an inch from his spot at Steve’s side is another indicator of how he’s okay with it playing out this way.

It’s exciting to not be able to see what’s happening. Tony listens as Steve unzips and lifts his hips in an uncomfortable bounce to lower his pants a little. Tony pictures the images to match what he can hear: the rise and fall of Steve’s chest, and then the movement down below as Steve pulls his dick out.

Steve sighs, a light sound of relief when he starts touching himself. He’s using both hands. One’s pumping the shaft, and the other is either playing with his balls or toying with the base. Spit and sweat makes for mediocre lubrication, but he’s going for it anyway, determined and self-assured.

“You better not make a mess,” Tony says. “I like this couch.”

Steve huffs a laugh. He shifts a little, the balance of the cushions moving with it, until Tony feels Steve’s face pressed against the back of his neck. Steve inhales deeply, murmurs his approval, and speeds up his movements. His breath grows quicker, too.

Tony lies there, drifting on low-level arousal and savoring the experience of not participating. Well, not participating _directly_. Tony knows without looking that Steve’s focused on him, and getting off on Tony’s being here, listening in and indulging him.

“Oh,” Steve gasps. “Tony, Tony—”

Tony hums approvingly, as always he loves the way Steve says his name.

“ _Tony_.”

“What?” Tony startles. “Oh, you were talking to me?”

“Yes!” Steve says, breathless and surly. “Could you just… could you look at it? Please?”

Tony grins. He carefully moves his tablet to the floor, just to be safe. Then, in the limited space on his half of the couch, he rolls over in a clumsy shimmy. He makes sure to keep his eyes up and finds Steve’s face – flushed and panting, and his eyes just a touch glassy.

In the early days of knowing Steve, Tony had thought the guy stiff and sexless, despite his general hotness. But Steve’s sexuality was not meant for overt display; it was to be earned and unwrapped as he grew comfortable. And here they are, both of them mostly fully clothed while Steve looks at him and jacks off with breathless Tony-focused enthusiasm.

“Hi,” Steve says tightly.

Tony hums neutrally. A bead of sweat works its way down Steve’s neck into his clavicle. After what feels like an appropriately dramatic pause, Tony lets his gaze drop to Steve’s crotch, where he’s playing with himself.

Steve groans, and his hips jerk upwards clumsily. Both his hands are around his cock now, and the head of it is swollen and shiny where it peeks through his fingers. He pulls at it desperately, pre-come spilling over his hands as he get closer. The noises he makes – such great, _great_ noises – grow shallower and more choked-off.

What a beautiful sight. Steve, a man of strength and composure, is now squirming restless and horny in the narrow space between Tony and the couch cushions. Just looking at him, Tony wants to shove Steve’s shirt up to his neck and lick a long stripe up his chest, but he won’t. (He will later.)

Instead, Tony pushes himself up from the cushions and reaches for the coffee table. Steve makes a hilariously offended sound, which only cuts off when he realizes that Tony’s just grabbing some Kleenex. Tony returns to the couch and gives him a look, but Steve seems too gone to care. He’s panting open-mouthed now, his knuckles tensing and releasing with each pulsing grip around his dick.

A little direct participation is fine. Tony puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder and tugs, pulling Steve to press his face against Tony’s chest. The angle’s awkward but Steve gasps and rubs his face eagerly against the space by the arc reactor. He fucks up into his own hands almost petulantly, and his legs fidget this way and that as he strives towards orgasm.

When Steve does come, it’s with a fantastic cry that’s muffled against Tony’s chest. He writhes and strains through it, all six foot plus of him uncoordinated and clumsy. Something in the couch’s frame creaks in protest.

Tony helps catch Steve’s come in the Kleenex. He dabs Steve’s dick clean and, giving to impulse, drops a quick kiss on the sensitive tip. Steve shudders.

“I want one here, too,” Steve grumbles.

“All right.” Tony leans in to kiss Steve’s eager mouth, soft and slow just the way he knows Steve wants it. Steve can’t kiss back with his usual finesse, but he does sigh happily into it, which is all sorts of fantastic.

At long last Tony leans back and studies the long stretch of Steve, just as he is: sated and content to be here, with him, and nowhere else.

“Had fun?” Tony says.

Steve hums. His smile is lopsided and fond. “Yeah.”

“Good. Now go wash your hands.”


End file.
